Bitter Spirits

TEN

AIDA FELT WHAT SHE IMAGINED HER SHOW PATRONS DID WHEN their lottery ticket number was called: excitement, disbelief, and the thrill of a small victory won. As Doctor Yip waxed poetic about Shenist and Taoist temples in Hong Kong, she half listened while exchanging looks with Winter. Doubt began creeping in. It seemed too simple. Too easy. But how many Chinese sorcerers called themselves Black Star?

Maybe it was that easy. They thanked the herbalist profusely and Winter offered to pay him for the information.

“No, no,” Yip said, waving his hands in dissent at the generous bill that Winter held out in offering. “It is nothing. Not a well-kept secret or trained knowledge. Just gossip.”

“I insist,” Winter said.

“How about an exchange for services? If you’d like to get rid of that pain you’re carrying, I’d be happy to provide some relief.”

Winter stared blankly at him.

“The arm,” Yip said, pointing. “I can see how you’re holding it that it’s causing you discomfort. If it’s an injury, I can make the pain go away and speed the healing. Bring healthy blood flow to the right spots.”

“I don’t think so. No offense, but I’ve had some bad experiences with folk remedies recently.”

“Not a remedy. Acupuncture.”

“Needles?” Aida said.

Winter frowned. “Oh, no-no-no.”

“Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t bleed. My needles are a fine quality, brought with me from Hong Kong. Very clean. Will only take seconds to place them, then you relax for a few minutes, and the pain will be gone. I have patients who come every week. Not just Chinese, but Westerners, too.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Aida encouraged Winter. “Why don’t you do it?”

Winter shook his head. “It’s kind of you to offer, Mr. Yip, but—”

“He’s afraid of needles,” Aida finished.

Winter narrowed his eyes down at her. “That’s not going to work.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Probably not.”

She laughed, and he grinned back at her. Flutter-flutter.

“I do it right back there,” Yip said, pointing to a long wooden bench and chair at the back of the shop.

“A needle seems much smaller than, I don’t know, let’s say, my lancet,” she said, grinning.

Winter sighed dramatically and slid his money across the counter. “Outmatched by a tiny woman.”

“Excellent!” Yip said. “Right this way.”

The herbalist questioned Winter about the state of his injury as they followed him to the bench at the back of the shop, where he shifted a carved wooden privacy screen and instructed Winter to remove his shirt while he disappeared in the back.

Aida glanced at Winter, and memories of Velma’s bathroom sprung into her mind. Well, what did she expect? The herbalist wasn’t going to poke needles through his shirtsleeves. Looked liked it was turning into her lucky day. She plunked down on a nearby chair and tried to act casual.

Winter set his fedora on the bench, then turned to her, shrugging out of his overcoat. “Hold this for me.” She took the heavy coat from him and folded it neatly on top of her lap.

“And this.” He stood inches away, towering over her with his suit jacket dangling in front of her face. She took it and folded it on his coat while eyeing the gun holstered at his ribs. After unbuckling the strap across his chest, he slid it off his good shoulder. “It can’t fire itself,” he assured her as he handed her the heavy leather holster. She made a face at him as she accepted it.

He proceeded to remove clothing until he was standing in nothing but his too-tight pants, suspenders dangling at his hips, and a sleeveless undershirt—which molded over every muscle in his broad chest and bared his tree-trunk arms. Her gaze flew to his injury.

“Good lord, Winter!”

Most of his left shoulder was mottled black and purple. She’d never seen an uglier bruise.

He tucked his chin to peer at his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Yip came out of the back room rolling a metal cart. He stopped to inspect Winter. “Oh! Very nasty. It’s okay, though. I’ll help you. Sit.”

An array of slender silver needles lay fanned upon a white cloth on the herbalist’s cart. “The newest type of needle, stainless steel,” Yip said. “Sharp and clean.”

Winter eyed them warily. “It’s the sharp part I don’t like.”

“You will. Dull needles are painful. Sit still.” Very delicately, Yip inspected the injury, prodding the skin around it and asking Winter questions about his range of movement. He rotated Winter’s arm until he grunted in pain. Yip seemed to be happy about this. “Ligaments injured. The bruise is bad, but superficial. I will help you. Relax.”

Winter looked ill. Legs spread, he hunched over, bracing his good arm on his knee while the herbalist used a small metal tube to hold a needle at the top of his shoulder. He tapped it with one finger. Winter closed his eyes. Aida cringed. The needle wobbled, standing proud on Winter’s shoulder like an errant dart.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Yip confirmed.

Winter grinned at Aida. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Half a minute later, five more needles porcupined his arm. Winter moaned.

“Feeling drowsy?”

“You didn’t tip these needles in poison, did you?”

Yip laughed. “What you’re feeling is your qi flowing. Natural energy. When it is blocked, you have pain. I’ve opened up a channel for your energy to flow. Just relax and enjoy it for a few minutes.”

A telephone rang. The doctor excused himself and went behind the counter up front to answer it, speaking in quick Cantonese.

Sandalwood smoke wafted from a dozen joss sticks standing in the brass bowl near Aida. “That looks like your arm right now,” she said, pointing to the incense stand.

“I feel . . . drunk,” he said, closing his eyes.

“In a good way?”

“In a very good way.”

Bells jingled again near the entrance. “Don’t pass out. I don’t think I could carry you to a taxi.”

“Mmm.” He took several breaths through his nose, and then murmured, “Do you think it’s really our guy? Black Star?”

“I hope so. Though, I was thinking, if he’s such a popular fortune-teller, I wonder why Bo hasn’t been able to turn up his name? Seems to me—”

“Aida.”

“—that if he’s working at one of the temples—”

“Aida,” he said sharply.

“Yes?”

“Come stand behind me.” Winter’s voice was strained, his gaze fixed behind her. “Now.”

She started to ask why, started to turn around to see what he was looking at, but an arm wrapped around her shoulders and yanked her backward. Winter’s clothes spilled out of her lap as her body lifted into the air. Her ankles knocked against the rungs of the chair. A man’s foot kicked it out from under her, and her back slammed against someone’s chest.

It happened so fast.

Winter charged, a snarl on his face, but another approaching voice gave him a rough command as a gun and a second man appeared at her side. “Sit back down.”

Winter held up his hands in surrender and sat. Doctor Yip stumbled past her with his hands up, as well.

She struggled to get away, clawing at the arm around her shoulders. His grip tightened painfully. She gasped for air and dug her nails into her assailant’s arm. He shoved her head to the side. Low Cantonese grated against her ear. His arm was beefy. Not as tall as Winter, judging from the way he felt against her, but solid enough. Her initial shock and confusion trickled into a deeper panic.

Winter addressed the man standing next to her in a barely restrained rumble. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“No, you did, Magnusson. This is Ju’s territory.”

“Did Ju send you here?”

“Ju hears Bo Yeung poking around, asking questions. Now you show up? He won’t be happy to hear we found you here. Not at all. Maybe you think now that your daddy is gone, you’ll get your hands on tong business.” The man took a step toward Winter. His black suit was creased. A bowler was perched crookedly atop his head. His ear was cauliflowered—bulbous and protruding around the upper shell. An old injury. “Why are you in Ju’s territory?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Why is Bo sniffing around?”

“Call off your dog and let her go. Then we can talk.”

The man said something in Cantonese that made her captor laugh. Fat fingers clamped over a breast and squeezed. Aida struggled to pull away. “Get your hands off of me.”

Winter lurched to his feet. “You dirty fucking pig—”

The cauliflower-eared man shoved the muzzle of the gun against Winter’s forehead as he grabbed one of his acupuncture needles and jammed it farther into Winter’s shoulder. He shouted incoherent blasphemies as his eyes watered.

“Do not spill blood!” Doctor Yip cried out. “This is a holy place.”

The man ignored the doctor. “Sit down,” he repeated to Winter.

Winter complied.

Aida’s panic shifted into anger. She could continue to stand by and do nothing while Winter got hurt—or killed! Or she could do something and help him.

Her mind raced. Her lower arms were free. The man holding her was becoming lazy as he watched his friend torment Winter. Doctor Yip was huddled against the far wall, talking silently to himself. Praying to his spirits, maybe. She hoped like hell they were listening.

The overpowering scent of sandalwood was making her ill. She glanced down at it in irritation. The brass incense bowl was within her reach, the tips of the sticks glowing orange.

Ah . . .

Fast as she could, she whipped her arm out and grabbed several sticks in one swoop. She felt the gripping arm tighten around her shoulders, but he wasn’t fast enough. She stabbed backward over her shoulder using all her strength, aiming the joss sticks for what she hoped was his face.